


Pistol

by rauqthetommo



Series: Crossfire [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Divergence - No Pennywise, Explicit Sexual Content, Hitman AU, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Rape, OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Slow Build, Slow Burn, graphic description of violence, very brief mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauqthetommo/pseuds/rauqthetommo
Summary: Richie Tozier is one of the best hitmen in Los Angeles. At least, that's what his handler tells him.He's good at what he does. And the people he kills are bad people. That makes it at least a little better. Right?Either way, Richie does his job day after day, without any real issues. That is, until he meets Eddie.An excerpt from this work:Richie Tozier never wanted to kill people. It wasn’t like it was his favorite thing in the world to do. But he was good at it. Damn good.He’d become a cop straight out of high school, then he’d been promoted to detective, and he eventually became a private investigator. He liked his work, sure, it was rewarding and he liked to help people, but dealing with scum day in and day out really started to take a toll on him.Then his neighbor’s daughter got killed.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Crossfire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658356
Comments: 6
Kudos: 102





	Pistol

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I've been working on since December (I think? Maybe November). I didn't want to post any of it until it was finished bc it's, like, my BIGGEST pet peeve when someone starts a series and then never finishes it. Well, now it's finally finished, so I'm gonna start posting it. I'm thinking one a week, but it's 20 parts and idk if I'll be able to wait that long to post the whole thing so I guess I'll see how I feel, or if y'all want the parts more frequently than that. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.

Richie Tozier never wanted to kill people. It wasn’t like it was his favorite thing in the world to do. But he was good at it. Damn good.

He’d become a cop straight out of high school, then he’d been promoted to detective, and he eventually became a private investigator. He liked his work, sure, it was rewarding and he liked to help people, but dealing with scum day in and day out really started to take a toll on him.

Then his neighbor’s daughter got killed.

She was a little girl, a real sweet thing, all long blonde braids and tiny buck teeth. She always said good morning to him when he left his apartment and she gave him cards on Christmas. Her name was Claire. And the guy that killed her didn’t just kill her, no. He strangled her with her own braid that he’d cut off and then raped her. He cut off her fingers and ripped out her teeth and left her tiny little butchered body on the doorstep of their building for him to trip over the next morning when he went to work.

He’d never forget that day, how he felt. It made him so sick to his stomach that he threw up right in the street, lurched over the railing of the stairs and puking his morning coffee and some stomach acid into the flowerbeds at the curb.

He went to her funeral and looked at her little white casket, all smooth and shiny, and listened to her mother wail and cry. He knew he needed to find the person that had killed her. He couldn’t let someone who was so evil take the life of someone so sweet and small and innocent. It was a goddamn travesty, and he knew he needed to fix it.

He found the man easily, he wasn’t exactly hiding. He was the janitor at Claire’s school, some middle-aged virgin with a god complex and mommy issues. Pathetic. Richie killed him and it felt right. Like he’d done the only possible logical thing.

He watched Claire’s mother on the news cry and thank whoever had killed that man. He didn’t ever speak to her again.

***

“I’ve got s-someone for you, Rich.” Bill Denbrough, Richie’s handler, was a very serious man. He’d picked Richie up after Richie killed a man that had been molesting his Boy Scout troop. Bill himself had been a hitman once, but had more-or-less retired from the field after taking a bullet to the kidney. Instead, he now employed other hitmen, finding them jobs and taking 40% of their payout. Richie didn’t mind. He liked Bill, and he never really did it for the money.

“Who?” Richie asked.

Bill had taken Richie out for coffee at a little Bistro in town called Hog’s. Bill liked Hog’s so much because of their blueberry scones, one of which he was tearing to shreds as he spoke. “His n-name is Marian Greybourne.” Bill said.

“What did he do?” Richie watched as Bill took a sip of his coffee and sighed through his nose.

“He’s sleeping with the wuh-wuh-wuh—“ Bill groaned in frustration, shaking his head. Richie just waited, giving him time to work through his stutter. Richie sipped his coffee and listened to Bill mutter to himself. “—he thrusts his fists against the p-p-posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, he thruh-thrusts—“ Bill frowned again. “Shit.” He said quietly.

“Wife?” Richie guessed.

Bill nodded. “Yes. Sleeping with the wuh-wife of a gangbanger. A man by the nuh-name of Damien Hayes.”

“And Damien wants me to kill him.” Richie finished, setting down his now empty coffee cup.

“Yes,” Bill nodded, taking a small bite of his scone. He twisted around and pulled a Manila folder out of his messenger bag, which was slung across the back of his chair.

“How long do I have?” Richie pushed his glasses back into place and opened the folder, looking over the small biography of his mark and some of the included pictures.

“3 days.”

“Plenty of time,” Richie remarked quietly. “I’ll take care of it.” He slid the folder in his bag and stood to leave, stopping when Bill remained seated. “Unless there’s something else?”

Bill looked at Richie with sad eyes. “I’m worried about you, Rich.”

“I’m sorry?” Richie settled back down into his seat.

“You just seem so lonely, p-pal.” Bill drummed his fingers on the blue-checked tablecloth.

“Lonely,” Richie repeated.

Bill nodded. “Yes, lonely.” He scooted his chair closer to the table. “You don’t geh-get out much, Rich. You do your jobs and you go back home, but that’s it.”

“Bill, I’m fine.”

“I j-j-just don’t want you to do something stupid.”

“Stupid how?” Richie raised an eyebrow.

Bill shrugged. “Luh-like offing yourself o-or rubbing someone the wruh-ong way and getting a hi-it put out on you. You’re a guh-good guy, Richie.” He reached across the table and patted Richie’s wrist. “I care about you.”

“I’m not going to kill myself, Bill.” Richie tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound sincere. “And I can’t really help if someone puts a hit out on me.” Bill nodded, but he was still frowning. “You don’t need to worry about me, Big Bill.” Richie patted Bill’s hand reassuringly. “I’ll be just fine.”

***

Richie was not just fine. Not by a long shot. But he couldn’t just tell Bill that. He was pretty sure having the man that pays you to kill people concerned about your well being wasn’t normal. But then again, none of his life really was.

“I’m not lonely.” Richie said aloud as he parked his car a few blocks from Marian Greybourne’s house.

But he was lonely. Incredibly so. The only person he really spoke to was Bill, and Stanley, and he liked them both, he considered them his friends, but he felt a longing for a more intimate relationship with someone. He was having trouble coming to terms with the life he’d chosen for himself. It had been different when he’d been killing people that he felt wronged by. The man who killed his neighbor. The local drunk that hit and killed three teenagers with his truck one night. The guy around the block that beat his girlfriend into a coma.

Killing those people felt right. He tried to make himself feel better, telling himself that these were still bad people, but it didn’t always help.

Richie sat in his car at the curb for a few minutes, steadying his nerves. He had a pistol with him, silencer already attached. He’d been given a list of places that Marian frequented in the file Bill had given him, but he preferred home jobs. Easier to cover up, easier to break clean from.

The night air was warm and muggy, as it almost always was in LA, as Richie stalked silently down the street towards Marian’s house. He was dressed casually, in an outfit that Bill lovingly called his “Selina Kyle Look.” _The only thing you need to complete the look is a pair of black stilettos, Rich._ It consisted of a plain black long-sleeve t-shirt, plain black jeans, black leather gloves and black sneakers.

Marian’s beloved bright pink jaguar (license plate number BHT 3456) was nowhere to be found, indicating to Richie that he was out. Fine by him. It gave him time to get inside and get prepared.

Marian Greybourne left his bedroom window unlocked and cracked, so Richie simply lifted it up and climbed inside. Despite being a grown man of 36 (only 6 years older than Richie), Marian’s bedroom looked like that of a teenager. Clothes and food wrappers littered the floor, along with drink bottles and used condoms. Richie stepped carefully around the messes, trying not to trip over the piles of video game cases and discarded pairs of shoes all over the carpet.

The floor creaked softly as he moved along, but he didn’t worry. He’d read in the file that Marian lived alone, so he figured he wasn’t at any risk of being caught here by a roommate or a live-in girlfriend.

As Richie stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall, he glanced to his right. The hallway stretched further down, back into the house, dotted with piles of crap and junk, blocking doors and clogging up the walkways.

“Don’t move,” Someone spoke to his left. “Put your hands up, where I can see them.” Richie did as he was told, raising his hands up slowly. “Turn around.”

Richie exhaled softly and turned to look at whoever had spoken to him. He was shocked to see a child. A young boy with dark brown hair and a scowl on his face. He was dressed all in black, gloves included, and had a revolver in his hands, pointed at Richie's crotch. “Do you live here?” Richie asked, perplexed. Marian didn’t have any children, at least none that were included in his file. When the boy didn’t answer, Richie tried again. “Is this your dad’s house?” The boy continued shooting daggers at Richie, barrel of his gun aimed at Richie’s cock. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” He shot back, still scowling.

“I asked you first,” Richie kept his hands up.

“Yeah, well, I’m the one with a gun to your dick, so I’d say I have the upper hand here.”

Richie swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He breathed evenly, trying to decided if he should lie to this kid about who he was. If he lived here, would be believe Richie was just a burglar? And if he didn’t live here, what was he doing here? “I’m Richie.” He slowly extended his hand towards the kid. “And you?”

“Eddie,” He didn’t shake Richie's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.” Richie smiled at him, trying to look reassuring. “Is this your dad’s house?” Richie repeated. Eddie didn’t answer. “What are you, like, 12?”

“And a half.” Eddie jutted his gun forward, jabbing Richie’s thigh with it.

“Seriously?” Richie eyed the gun. He couldn’t bodycheck a 12-year-old, he would absolutely destroy him.

“No, you fucking idiot.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “I’m 18.”

“Is Marian your brother?”

“No,”

“Then what are you doing here?” Eddie’s eyes flashed over Richie’s shoulder. He raised his gun and fired, causing Richie to flinch, bringing his hands up to cover his ears. The shot was silenced but it was still loud, ringing in Richie’s eardrums and knocking his teeth together.

“That.” Eddie shrugged, dropping his gun on the ground. He turned and walked away, down the hallway and out of Richie’s sight, letting the front door slam shut loudly behind him.

Richie took a second to steady his breathing, his heart slamming so hard against his breastplate he was shocked it didn’t crack his ribs. His eyes watered and his nose prickled at the smell of gunpowder. He turned around slowly, his ears still piercingly sharp. Slumped against the wall was Marian, killed by the gunshot wound straight to his chest. Richie blinked. Whoever that kid was, he’d stolen Richie’s kill, and he wanted to know why.

***

“Idiot, idiot, idiot, jackass, jackass, jackass.” Eddie mumbled to himself as he retreated from Greybourne’s house. That was supposed to be an easy job, a quick in and out with a large payout, but that fucking moron had gotten in his way. “Who the fuck was that?!” Eddie asked no one, dragging the soles of his shoes against the pavement.

Eddie Kaspbrak never wanted to kill people. It wasn’t like it was his favorite thing to do in the world. But he was good at it. Damn good.

After he’d aged out of the foster system, he’d been picked up by Beverly Marsh. She employed him as a hitman and gave him good jobs and good money. Now Beverly was the closest thing he had to a friend, the closest thing he had to family. He would never go meet her in person, they only ever spoke over the phone. One call to give him his assignment, one call to confirm his kill. Never any more, never any less. He needed to call Bev now, tell her that he’d killed Marian and gotten away clean. But it hadn’t been clean. He’d introduced himself to that fucking halfwit, why had he done that? “You’re so fucking stupid, Eddie, you’re a fucking idiot, a goddamn moron, a stupid little—“ His self deprecating rant was cut short by his phone ringing. _Bad to the Bone_. Beverly’s ringtone. “Hello?” He said softly, phone pressed to his ear.

“How’d it go, Eddie?” He could hear her smoking, taking a long drag off of her cigarette.

“Fine, Marian is dead.” He raked his hand through his hair, scratching his nails against his scalp, almost pushing hard enough to draw blood.

“No hang ups?” She asked. An innocent enough question, sure, but he felt like there was some weight behind it. Could she know? Did she have him bugged? His clothes? His gun? His cell phone? Was she watching his every move from a satellite? Could she see him right— “Eddie?”

 _Stop spiraling._ He scolded himself in his head. “Uhm,” He swallowed. “Someone else was in the house.”

“Another causality?” Bev asked.

“No, uh.” Eddie turned his face into his shoulder as he walked past a woman with a chihuahua. The dog sniffed his ankles as it walked by. “Another hitman. I think someone else marked Marian.”

Beverly exhaled slowly. “It’s possible.” She said after a minute. “Marian rubbed all sorts of people the wrong way. I heard a rumor that he was sleeping with Damien Hayes’s wife.”

“Damien Hayes the gangbanger?” Eddie knew that name. He’d met Damien and his wife, Shondra, at his daughter’s quinceañera. Eddie had briefly been in juvie with Damien’s son, Maxus.

“Do you know another Damien Hayes?”

“No,” Eddie reached his car, a small green hatchback, and unlocked the door.

“If I had to guess, I’d say that someone caught Marian with Shondra and ordered him dead.” Bev sighed, sounding bored. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, kiddo.” Bev’s petname for him when she grew tired of their conversation. “Get some rest for tonight, I’ll have someone drop off your money tomorrow.”

“Ok,”

“Goodnight, Eddie.” She didn’t wait for him to repeat the pleasantry before the line clicked off.

Eddie slid his phone in his pocket and rested his forehead against the steering wheel, listening to his lungs expand outwards with each breath. His chest heaved and he coughed once, twice, but he was determined not to use his inhaler, which was tucked away in the glovebox. _I’m a fucking moron._ He told himself. _I should have killed that guy. Whatever the fuck his name was. Ricky. No. Richie. Yeah, that’s right. What a jackass._ He laughed to himself, knocking his head against the wheel softly. _Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. He’ll probably get himself killed by some other mark he was too stupid to handle._

Marian was a fucking idiot scumbag rapist, but Eddie was pretty sure even Marian could’ve outsmarted that idiot hitman.

Eddie pulled his head off of the steering wheel and turned his face to the side, flipping open the file on his passenger seat. He’d been hired by a woman named Marcy Thumb. She’d taken a hit out on Marian because he’d raped two of her three young daughters. The fucking moron hadn’t even had enough sense to put on a mask or use a condom. They’d both seen him, and gotten his DNA all over them. Marcy had wanted to go to the police, but her husband, a dealer pretty high up in the chain of command in LA, had convinced her otherwise. They’d gotten in touch with Bev, and two days later Eddie had hopped the fence into Marian’s yard and killed him in his own hallway.

Eddie sighed and flipped the file closed. He pushed his key into the ignition and turned it. The engine chugged once and turned over, the car grumbling to life. “Everything is fine.” He mumbled to himself, trying not to let his brain overwhelm him with anxiety. “Everything is fine.” He said again, shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb.

***

“What do yuh-you mean, ‘Someone else killed Mare-Marian?’ What the fuck duh-does that mean, Richie?”

“I can’t make it any clearer to you, Bill.” Richie hissed into his phone, glancing over his shoulder as he walked quickly down the street, away from Marian’s house.

“Who?”

“Some fucking kid, I don’t know.” Richie shrugged. “Eddie.”

“Eddie?” Bill repeated. “Why the fuh-fuck was a kid th-there?”

“I don’t know, Bill!” Richie said, exasperated. “He just was, ok? He was there when I got inside.”

“Did you kih-kih-kill him?”

“I can’t kill a kid, Bill!” Richie jammed his key into the car door, whipping it open and collapsing into the driver’s seat.

“Richie, you aren’t guh-going to get p-paid for job ih-f you didn’t k-k-kill him.” Bill sounded mad.

“No fucking shit,” Richie snapped, starting the car up. “At least he’s dead, right?”

“Mm,” Bill didn’t really sound like he agreed.

“I think Damien will probably be happy about this. Marian is dead, and he doesn’t have to pay us? That’s a win win.”

“Wuh-win win for who, Rich?” Bill demanded. “We’re nuh-not getting paid!”

Richie slumped back against his seat, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Look, I’m sorry, Bill. I fucked up, I know.” He shook his head. “I— I’ll try and make this up to you.”

“Ho—“

“I don’t know how.” Richie cut him off. “But I will. I’ll talk to you soon, Big Bill.”

“Richie—“

“Goodnight.” Richie hung up the phone and tossed it into his passenger seat. “What a fucking clusterfuck.” He moaned, sinking down in his seat until his knees pressed against the underside of the dashboard and his ass hung over the footwell. He slammed his palms into the steering wheel a few times. “Fuck!” He yelled through gritted teeth, his glasses slipping down his nose in his tantrum. “Mother fucking shit fuck!” He hit his steering wheel again. “Fuck!”

***

Eddie’s apartment was dark when he got there. He usually left a light on for himself, but he must have forgotten, so he simply kicked his shoes off on the mat and deadbolted the door behind himself.

He walked forward in the dark until his knees hit the arm of the couch, and then collapsed over, face first into the pillows. He sighed heavily, the cushions smelled like the Autumn Breeze air freshener plug-in he had, so he burrowed deeper into the couch. His body was exhausted and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but he knew he had to take a bath first. He always did after a job, he needed to wash himself clean of what he’d done.

While he ran the bath for himself, scalding hot with lots of floral smelling soaps, he undressed and threw his clothes in the hamper, making a mental note to start a load of laundry tomorrow when he woke up.

He stared into his own eyes, dark and tired, in the mirror. He ran a hand through his curly hair, brushing it out of his eyes. It was long now, longer than it had ever been, with the curls hanging down over the tops of his ears. “I should get a haircut,” Eddie said to his reflection. He nodded, running his hands down his face, over the wispy hairs of his barely-there mustache. He couldn’t grow facial hair, at least not in a meaningful amount. Just a few sparse hairs on his upper lip and small patches just under his sideburns. He liked his facial hair, he decided. What he had of it, anyway.

When the tub was full, he tossed in a lemon bath bomb and settled into the fizzling water.

He relaxed for a minute, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the bath pillow. The water bubbled with the sweet smell of lemon, tingling his skin and clearing his sinuses. He took a deep breath and sank down into the water, letting it weigh down his hair and rush over his face. He opened his mouth and screamed loudly into the bubbly water, coming up coughing from the thick lemon taste in his mouth. He sputtered and pushed his wet hair off of his forehead, leaning back against the bath pillow. “Fuck,” Eddie mumbled quietly, chest tight. He thought of his inhaler, sitting on his bedside table. “I don’t need it.” He told himself out loud.

_Your lungs are collapsing. You’re going to die. You need your inhaler right now, or else you’re going to—_

“I’m fine.” He shook his head. _Stop spiraling_. He repeated in his head.

He sat up in the water and squirted some soap on a washcloth, scrubbing roughly over his skin.

_He’s on your skin._

He ran over his whole body with the cloth a second time, lifting his arms to wipe underneath, scrubbing behind his ears and over the back of his neck, running over his knees and roughing up the hair on his legs.

_He’s under your nails._

He cleaned under his nails with a scrub brush, carefully going over each nail twice.

_He’s in your hair._

Eddie squeezed some shampoo into his hands and worked it up into a lather, dragging it through his hair, rubbing each curl between his fingers.

“He’s gone.” He said to himself, in an attempt to stop his brain from spinning out of control.

 _He’s gone_. His brain repeated back.

Eddie sighed and sank further into the tub, letting the water lap up to his chin. He needed to calm down, destress, relax a little before he had a goddamn embolism. He moved his hand to his cock under the water, gently wrapping his fingers around it and tugging lightly. He stiffened in his own hand as he continued to jerk himself off, eyes closed, head tipped back. He thought of all of the men he’d slept with, licking his lips and running his free hand up his bare chest. He thought of all of the notches on his bedpost, each one indicating a different stranger he’d brought home and fucked in his bed, kicking them out shortly after. “Fuck,” He moaned softly, stomach fluttering as he bucked up into his own fist. His mind flashed briefly over the men he fucked, their lips on his skin, sucking marks into his flesh, on his neck or his thighs. His hands wrapped up in their hair while he bounced on their cocks, eyes shut, head back. Their hands inside of him or around him, scratching down his back as he rode them through their orgasms. He pushed himself over the edge like that, jerking his hips up again as he came, spilling into and mixing with his now soiled bath water.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me anywhere! My handle for everything is @rauqthetommo! Feel free to ask me questions at all on my tumblr!


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